Getting Closer

My Street:They’re relining the sewers in the next street. Slight foul constipatory smells mixed with the chemical confectionary of polyurethane resin glue. Ambivalent.

My House:On the white stairs a small ladybird with wings prepared to fly, sculpted by death, made me think of Asterix the Gaul’s helmet.

My Garden:Snapping through the might of ivy. Melted, assimilated, melded; and green hairy vice to my wooden slatted garden fence. It spreads across the top, basking in the sunset, like me stretching my arms out across the back of the sofa, watching TV.

Sonnet no#1My eyebrows pucker in a self-amused frownAt this preposterous, prosaic and pedantic caper.I can’t quite believe I’m writing this down!Longhand! Italics, real ink on real paper.Like a spider dragging a bloody legOver a vellum shroud stretched o’er this desk;Words, signs, symbols spat out of my headIn long parallel lines that stretchTo infinity: To remind me. The hard copy.Coerced, proof. Extort truth; Squeeze my heart for evidence of an apology.Shouldn’t be grovelling at the feet of apothecariesWhen they want the death of me.

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